


Aftermath

by AuthorReinvented



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America was raped and trying to get over it, Angst, Brothers, Canada helps, Depression, Healing, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Multi, Other, PTSD, Self-Harm, aftermath of rape, suicidal thought
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 22,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorReinvented/pseuds/AuthorReinvented
Summary: Something terrible happened to America, and broke him. And suddenly America is left scared, alone, suicidal, with no-one to turn to and no escape.Canada shows up to save his brother, too late. Can Canada bring America back from the brink? Or will he lose his brother forever?
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 66





	1. Year 1- Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bealtaine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106022) by [Salmagundi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmagundi/pseuds/Salmagundi). 



America was so, so scared. He wanted to launch himself into someone's arms and have them hold him tight. No wait, he didn't want that. He didn't want anyone to touch him ever again. He wanted them the stay as far away from him as possible, or to all just disappear. But no, he didn't want to be alone.

It hurt. The others had long ago learned that he couldn't be left alone. The mutiple suicide attempts that came to nothing had proven that. America was a country, after all. He couldn't die. God, he wished he could. But even if he didn't die, he could feel pain. He ached so much, he pulled out his knife again. He stiffened as he heard a soft gasp- France's concerned murmur - and the door knob rattled.

He jumped to his feet, set on fire. That door was everything he hated. A constant reminder that he wasn't alone, but also what made him feel so alone. His heart was either beating a thousand beats a second, or had stopped altogether. America backed up, pressing his back against the wall, legs trembling, and tried to fight the irrational fear that the wall would come alive, that the arms would grab him from behind, hold him, force him-

The door knob stopped rattling but America didn't let his guard down. He pointed his knife toward the door, ready for any unexpected attack. Finally, after hours, or possibly days, he collapsed, his shaking legs unable to bear the weight of his body. Not that his body weighed much any more. He knew how it would go. He would eventually pass out from hunger, and would wake restrained to a hospital bed, with iv drops and pipes attached. He would panic and run, so, so far, but in the end they caught him and dragged him back to this prison.

That's what happened last time. His stomach growled at the though of food, but when America tried to picture eating, he felt sick. He retched, but nothing came up. There was nothing to come up. Still, he heaved a few times anyways. America wanted to go home. Wait, he was home. Well, he was on America's land anyways. He wanted to run away to his little house in New York City, where he could be surrounded by people but none of them would notice him. He wanted to turn invisible like Canada did.

He flinch at thinking the forbidden name. His brother had abandoned him. He had been the only one who hadn't gone to the meeting, that day. Had he known? He sacrificed America. America had trusted him. He'd trusted all of them, but one by one they had ripped him apart. He had begged them, pleaded with them, even threatened them to stop, but they refused. Well, now his economy was fine again, but America... He wished he and his whole country had disappeared.

And where was Canada then? True, he wasn't with France and England, their sad eyes and pathetic apologies undone by their own actions. But still, America had hoped, wished that Canada would be his salvation, that he would burst in, stop them all, save America, protect him. But he hadn't shown up, and America hadn't heard or seen him since. Was it payback, for 1812? For all the times America forgot, or ignored, or bullied Canada?

Even so, this was too cruel. Anyone America had thought he could trust, countries he had considered friends, his own family, they all had betrayed him in the worst possible way. America wished he could die, but he knew if the blade touched his neck, or his heart, they would come rushing in, their filthy hands reaching to touch him, saying they would help him. But America had already had a taste of their help, and it killed him inside.

So instead America dragged the sharp blade across his arm, not too deep, and watched with a bemused satisfaction as the crimson blood spilled. He wanted to laugh at how little this stinged, doing nothing to overshadow the other pain he felt. But he did it again, and again. He had to keep himself busy or he'd go crazy. They would stay away as long as he didn't try suicide.

But the door creaked open and America was up, slamming himself into a corner, eyes white and wild, knife out and ready to deal damage to anyone who stepped near. France, the best at reading body language,one of the betrayers, stood at the door, but made no effort to come in. "Amérique..." He said softly, pleadingly. And America screamed. He screamed to cover the sound of the name he never wanted to hear again. If it wasn't for "America" this would never have happened, he wouldn't be here now, he would be fine. 

France retreated a couple more steps, staying in veiw of the room but further away. His sad eyes took in the many cuts on America's arms, and the blood dripping and running down them. America ran out of air and was gasping catching his breath, terrified. France tried again, this time avoiding the name. "Would you like ton frère?" He offered uncertainly. "He has been asking after you, but we did not want to upset you.." America froze. To upset him? It was too late for that sentiment.his brain moved foggily, and even though he had told himself he wouldn't speak to them even again, that he wouldnt acknowledged them or say their names, his brothers name fluttered past his lips, broken and small.

"Canada?" America hated how hopeful that tiny word sounded. Just as quickly as the hopeful whisper passed his lips, the terror set in again. What if Canada had known, what if he had done this, set America up? What if Canada had known? If Canada was involved than his last hope, the last person he could trust, would disapear. America swayed, and his kness gave out. He heard France cry out and he fell, and wanted to stab him, threaten him, make him go away, but his body wouldn't respond and his vision was already going black.


	2. Year 1 - Chapter 2

When America woke up he became aware that he was once again strapped to the hospital bed and attached to tubes and IV drips. He could hear England and France arguing nearby, and refused to open his eyes, to acknowledge them. "Its a bad idea!" England insisted angrily. "You mentioned it and he fainted!" "There were many reason for Amérique to faint," France argued back. "And this is the first time he's spoken since then!" There was a stuffy silence, and America could picture England bring his lip trying to decide. America instantly felt sick again, and reminded himself not to think. It wasn't England, just some faceless, nameless entity that had escaped hell to torment him. He reminded himself that England may as well have been dead, because to America, he was already gone.

Finally, England responded. "But I'm worried about how Canada will react." He confided in a low tone. "Will he understand?" America's heart sped up. Was Canada involved after all? Or was he innocent? But his heart spreading up was picked up by the motitor, and the beeping got faster too, and France didn't get the chance to respond, as he noticed America was awake. America fetlt the presence of the other two get closer and suddenly he was panicking, and he knew it was pointless to stay pretending. He strained at the restaints, but they were metal now, since he broke the cloth ones last time.

But America was stronger than metal and he snapped his eyes open, the metal tearing as England reached his side. "It's okay!" England tried to soothe, but America could feel his panic too. America was enraged. Okay? Who was okay? Not him, for sure. He strained his legs, snapping the restraints on them too, and scooted back, away from England, then jumping and cowering in the other side of the bed, using it as a meager wall between the two of them. Enland faltered, looking more broken then after America's revolution.

America's sharp eyes caught the flash of the steel knife, dried blood still on the blade, on the table behind England. Confiscated, like his many guns and other blades. England seemed to realize what he was looking at a second too late. America lunged at the table, and England cried a wanring to France, reaching for America to stop him. But America's fingers closed around the knife, fingers slicing on the blade, and England's fingers barely brushed his back. But that was enough. America wanted to vomit, to scream, but mostly to run, far, far, away from England.

So he did run, crashing out of the room and throwing himself back into his special room, slamming to door shut, leaning his back against it, wishing he could lock it. He ignored the two sided glass window, how they watched him to make sure he didn't do anything worse. He was gasping, panting, but he couldnt rest to catch his breath. He threw himself away from the door as a sudden, unprecedented panic set in. That the door would open, or that hands would reach through the door and grab him, hold him, and then-

Once again he was pressing his back into the corner, eyes wide, taking wild panicked gasps for breath. He sank slowly down in the corner, curling up, holding his knife properly now, by the handle. Ready to defend himself at a moment's notice, but he was tired. America knew he couldn't fall asleep. If he did, then it would be all over. But still, his eyes were fluttering shut and despite his frenzied heartbeat, weariness took over.

When America awoke, it was to yelling. He had never heard the voice yelling at this tone before. And it took a moment to recognize it. There were others too, that accursed England and France, but the main voice, the one that drew him to his feet, that forced him to hold out the knife, was his brothers breathless tone. "Where is he?" Canada demanded, and the sharp tone made America grip his knife closer. He regretted this now. He didn't want to see Canada. If he was involved, if he knew, and had let America go, then America knew his last thread of sanity would snap,. He'd have nothing left. 

America wanted to shout, to stay away, to leave him alone but his mouth didn't react to the command from his brain, he was frozen. He had to stop him, he realized dimly. He had to stop Canada. But the door to the room swug open with a slam and Canada appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, panting, a mirror of America. Canada froze at the sight of America, bloodied, half bandaged, but mostly, wild and scared. America remained frozen opposite Canada, searching for a sign that Canada was innocent, that he could be trusted.


	3. Year 1 -Chapter 3

Then Canada moved, rushing towards America, and suddenly America was on fire again, burning, hurting. He brought the knife up and pointed it, shakily. "Stay away!" but his voice came out as a sqeak. "Stop, or I'll-" But Canada didn't stop. Despite America's desperate threat, England's cry of warning, or France's demand to "Be careful!" Canada didn't stop. America knew he saw the knife, but he didn't seem to care. Maybe he thought America wouldn't use it on him. But he was wrong. America has learned the hard way that he couldn't trust anyone. 

  
Even as Canada's arms wrapped around America's neck, pulling him close, America could feel the heat of his brother's blood spill over his hands. "Al." Canada whispered his name for America, a name only Canada can say, into America's ear, and the America's hands were suddenly no longer on the handle of the knife, but locked around Canada, clinging to his shoulders, fingers twisted in the fabric of his jacket. He was crying, hard, his tears and his snot and Canada's blood mixing together. Canada's jacket was ruined, but Canada didn't say anything, just held America closer.  
Finally, America remembered something and he peeled himself off Canada, looking pathetically at his brother's face, and then down to the kniffe still lodged in his chest. "Ah." It was less a sound and more a breath. A shock of acknowledgement of what he'd done, filled with pain, and fear, and regret. "I'll heal." Canada avoided using the words America hated so much. Because it wasn't okay, it would never be okay again.

  
Someone moved behind Canada, and America curled into himself, scared, hiding behind Canada, ducking his head into his brother's jacket, as though to disappear. America wanted to disappear. He wanted everything to end, Canada couldn't protect him. He hadn't last time, so how could he now? But Canada, too, had stiffened his gentle face he had shown to America only a moment ago, and now wore a mask of ice, so cold that America felt a chill run through him, as though his blood had turned to ice.

  
Canada half turned, aiming his icy glare over his shoulder at the offending countries. When he spoke, his voice lowered the temperature of the room several degrees. "What-" He began slowly, in a barely controlled tone, "-did you do to my brother?" France looked as though he'd like to execute his favorite battle strategy: strategic retreat, but England was blocking the doorway, clearly expecting him to explain. 

  
Canada stood up, furious, and America went with him, clinging to his jacket for dear life. America felt like if he were to let go of Canada right now, he'd be lost forever, scared, and in pain. So he held on tight. Perhaps because of this, Canada kept his arms tight around America, protectively, instead of murdering France and England outright. Timidly France began to explain. "we had to do it, Mon cher, we did it for America, to save him!" He began desparately, and at the words, America left out a pitiful whine, remembering the last time he hear those words. He wanted to die, to stop it right now, to make the memories, the horror, go away.

  
Canada brought his hands to America's ears, covering them, and demanded again, colder than ice; "What did you do?" America counted down from three thousand inside his head, feeling Canada's body shake with rage, then a cry of anger and disbelief, then a furious demand, and Canada's hands fell from America's ears, digging in his pockets, he pulled out his cellphone. America dug his fingers deeper into Canada's shoulders. And all three countries stared at Canada, apprehensively.

  
"Who else?" Canada demanded, typing in his phone. "Germany?" He shot viscously at France and England. "Russia?" America's former father figures let there gaze drop to the floor, and America whimpered at the sounds of those names, wanting to forget, wanting to go away for good. But one by one, Canada extracted the names of the perpetrators from France and England, and neither offered any more excuses, only watched him, with something akin to fear.

  
When Canada dialled the phone, America snapped his head up, trying to read his brother's stone face, feeling an overwhelming sense of foreboding. "It's me." He snapped into the phone, barking out a passcode in a voice so unlike him. "That list of countries I just texted you" He continued, and France and England exchanged looks, and America let go of Canada, realizing what he was planning. "Order a nuclear strike on all of them." Canada demanded, again shaking with anger.


	4. Year 1-Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I noticed when I went to update that I had not posted chapter 3 by mistake, so please make sure to go back and read it and chapter 4 will make more sense!

Instantly France and England broke their silence with cries of protest. "You can't start a war with the whole world!" England protested, "You'll be destroyed!" C'mon Cher, " France pleaded," Please think of what you are doing. It is dangerous." Canada snarled at that, an inhuman sound, like an angry wild animal. The voice on the phone also protested, high-pitched and frenzied. Somewhere past the fog of fear, the hatred, and the pleasure America would have felt a seeing each and every country that hurt him suffer, an alarm sounded in his brain.

If Canada started a war with all those countries, he would definitely be destroyed in retribution. Canada was the only one left he could trust, and America refused to lose him. He grabbed his brother's sleeve, jerking the hand that held the phone, and tried to communicate all of this, but his words weren't working like he wanted. He only managed on word, weak and tired and pleading. "Mattie..." he whispered his brother's nickname, used only by him, begging, and hoping against all hopes that this time, at least, someone would listen to him.

Canada caught his breath, and then, once again in a gentle tone, he spoke into the phone. "Cancel that." he whispered softly. "It's personal. I'll take care of it myself." America sagged with relief, and found his knees wouldn't support him anymore. Canada caught him, reaching under rhis arms, hauling him up. "Come on, Al, let's go home." America looked at him, searchingly. "Not here, your real home." America had many houses, one in every state in the US.

Once again, words slipped through his lips. "Which one?" Maybe it was the tone, less broken than before, or the fact America was speaking to Canada at all, but Canada's familar soft smile spread across his face as he scooped America up lovingly. "Wherever you want." Canada responded. "Anywhere." America felt his heart jump and he leaned close to Canada's ear, not wanting any of the other countries, especially France and England, to be able to find him. "New York." He whispered, and Canada understood. "Sure thing, bro."


	5. Year 2- Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed when I went to update that I had not posted Year 1-chapter 3 by mistake, so please make sure to go back and read it and chapter 4 will make more sense!

When America woke up, he couldn't remember anything. He only knew two things. The first, that he was America, the country, the people, and the person. The second, that he hurt. He didn't know why, or where the pain came from, or the reason for the flesh wounds that disappeared moments after they were caused. He only knew that he, America, was in pain. And because he was in pain and didn't know why, he was scared. He was scared of the sounds of people in the busy new York streets, of the water dripping from the leaky faucet, and of the strange, silent man in his house, a man he didn't know, but felt he should, who only looked at him with gentle, sad eyes, and brushed the tears from his face when he cried.

He didn't know the man, he didn't understand, but something deep inside told him that he had hurt the stranger when he had opened his eyes, confused and amnesiac, and asked tremulously "Who are you?" But the man hadn't gotten upset, he hadn't yelled or glared, he hadn't hurt America. He'd smiled, a sad kind of smile that really couldn't be called a smile at all, and had introduced himself softly. "You can call me Mathew." He had said. Mathew had called America "Alfred."

Even though America had only known two things when he woke up, he quickly learned a third: that was that he was dependent on Mathew. Without Matthew, America thought the pain would take over, destroying him. But when he whimpered in his sleep, Mathew held him close. If he cried, Mathew wiped his tears away. When he was hungry, Mathew cooked, dirty, Mathew bathed him, and if he was alone, Mathew would come sit by him. 

But Mathew couldn't stay by America's side forever. Sometimes he would get up to do a load of laundry, or clean, and America would pad along behind him, his body feeling too big, too bulky. Sometimes Mathew needed to go out for groceries, like now, and Alfred would be left alone, too scared to head out into sea of people, some instinctual whisper in his head saying he must not allow himself to be touched, because that was where the pain came from.

But America didn't want to stay behind, huddled in a blanket, waiting for Mathew to come back. He knew that it was dangerous out there, scary, but it was scarier to be alone, waiting for Mathew. Some tiny voice in the back of his head whispered "How long until Mathew gets bored? How long until he leaves?" and it terrified America, to the point that when Mathew started to put on his sneakers, America jumped up and grabbed his sleeve, and managed to say, stumbling over the words, "I'm coming too." After all, if he got hurt while he was with Mathew, then Mathew would chase away the pain and dry up the tears. But if he got hurt while he was alone, all that would happen is that he'd be in pain all by himself.

"Al.." Mathew whispered the name, and America felt it go through him. He was America, he knew that, but when Mathew called him that, it felt right. Could he be both Alfred and America? He didn't know, but he didn't know anything. Or at least he couldn't remember. Mathew hadn't protested when Alfred put his shoes on and pulled Matthew's sweater over his head and followed him out the door. He had been carefully to make sure no one touched America, though some came close. America had twined his grip into the other's hands, holding tightly so he wouldn't get separated.

"Oh, you two look the same!" the girl at the checkout had said as she scanned the milk. "Are you brothers?" "Yes, this is my brother, Alfred." Mathew had responded. America had started at that, staring at Mathew. Did they look alike? At the clothing store, he stared at his reflection. He didn't have Matthew's kind purple eyes, or sad facial expression, or wavy hair or curl. It's true that they both wore glasses, had blonde hair, and had the same face shape, but the resemblance stopped there.

America's eyes were blue and full of pain and sadness. His face always seemed to look lost and confused, as though the answers to his questions were just beyond the next thought, but never quite in front of him. But the cashier at the clothing store said the same. "Ah, you must be twins," she said in a thick accent. "you look so alike." Here was a new word that America didn't understand. "Brother" was a term he knew, but to label Mathew with that term felt wrong. Words like "brother" and "family" tasted bitter to America, and made the hurt inside feel sharper. The concept of "friends" made his heart hurt, and his breathing harder.

But this word, "twin" was new. Neither bitter, nor painful, nor sad, but rather warm. It reminded America of Mathew, and he tried it on for size. "Mathew," he said quietly when they were back at home, "Are you my twin?" Mathew had froze for a moment, but then his soft smile spread across his face, a flush of pleasure on his cheeks. "Yes," Mathew said. "I'm your other half."


	6. Year 2-Chapter 2

America learned more things as more days passed. He learned that Mathew liked maple syrup, and sweets a lot. He learned that coffee was really good and made him feel like he could lift mountains. He learned that the nightmares that plagued him when he slept that he could never quite remember would go away by taking one of the little white pills that Matthew religiously guarded. He learned that he must never, ever take too many of those pills - even if the nightmares were really bad lately, and sometimes he woke up shaking so badly, aching so much, feeling phantom hands and pains, so much so that not even Mathew could touch him - even if this was the case.

  
Because one time he did. The nightmares had felt so real, and he'd woken with words ringing in his ears, "I'm sorry, America , its for your own good." "Forgive me, Amérique." "America-San, gomen." The words felt filthy, and he had scratched at his ears to make it stop, but even when his hand pulled away, bloodied, the voices still echoed. Mathew had been sleeping really deeply, so America had helped himself to the pills. He had taken just one, then two, then three, but still the voices echoed, so he kept taking the pills, waiting for the voices to stop.

  
Eventually the voices did. So did everything else. He had woken in a puddle of vomit, Matthew's fingers down his throat, tears dripping from Matthew's face to merge with the ones leaking from America's own eyes. Mathew had cried, so hard, pulling America close, completely oblivious to the vomit, the smell, and had begged America to never do that again. America hadn't wanted Mathew to be in pain too, so he agreed. 

  
America had learned that it was not usual to have scars on your wrists, and that people gave him strange glances when they saw them. Some pitying, some sad, some understanding, some disgusted. He learned that flinching when people offered a hand to shake, or moved too quickly, would hurt their feelings, and that the words "I'm sorry" shouldn't be something that would drive a normal person to tears. America learned that he was different. 

  
America learned to be called Alfred, to respond to that name. He learned that Mathew would sometimes call him "Al" or "Bro" but no-one but himself called him America. So it was that America had almost forgotten his name when it happened. He had been out with Mathew when a small, bushy-eyebrowed boy in a sailor-suit followed by an auburn Italian had suddenly called out to him. "America!" the little boy had shouted excitedly. "It's me, Sealand! What are you doing here?"  
America didn't know what it was about the little boy, but the strange accent, the bushy eyebrows, something about the boy terrified America. When the Italian spoke, the same something screaming danger coursed through America's veins and for the first time since he could remember, he left Mathew, bolting home alone. When Mathew arrived home a little later, America remembered everything.

  
"Alfred?" Mathew asked carefully, finding his twin curled up on the floor, hiding in a blanket as though that cloth was armour. For a moment, America didn't respond, and Mathew got even more concerned, dropping to his knees. "Al?" he tried again, the nickname hanging on the air between them. Alfred remembered so many times before that Mathew had called this nickname, so many times he'd failed to give the proper response. Finally, he raised his head, croaking one pitiful word. "Mattie." 

  
The single word plea was more than enough and Mathew-no, Canada- threw himself at America, pulling him into his arms. "I missed you." Canada whispered into America's hair. America didn't respond, because he'd learn something new with the return of his memories, something horrifying and disturbing. America learned that his nightmares were real. 

  
And it terrified him. 

  
"Mattie." He whispered Into Canada's ear, "I want to go, now." Canada hadn't argued, only getting America to his feet, packing their bags and a few essentials and paying a taxi to take them to the parking lot his car was stored at. In less than an hour America and Mathew where out of the state of New York, and on their way to the next place. America didn't breath properly until they arrive in Nevada and started unpacking, and, even then, he still fell scared that Sealand might somehow find him there.


	7. Year 3-chapter 1

America was hungry, but he knew better than to eat. After all, food cost money, and America knew best of all how dear money was right now. So Amerca didn't eat. America needed to wash his clothes, but water also cost money. Besides, washing required electricity, which was money, so America had it shut off. America knew he too, needed to wash, but he refused to spend money. America needed to save money, every bit, so that never happejed again. 

America regretted having sent Canada home. He hadn't been able to watch the sad look in his brother's eyes each time him saw him, the tears that had glittered when Canada had counted his ribs, so he sent him home. Canada has done what he'd been asked. He knew better than to force America, not right now. But every month, without fail, Canada came to visit America. He would bathe America, wash his clothes, provide America some of his clothes to wear. Afterall, America had sold all of his clothes or given them away. Except for the clothes on his back, and the new clothes and other things Canada brought him, America had nothing.

He sold his furniture, his video games, his books, everything. It was Canada, who had brought him blankets to sleep with and an air mattress, insisting it was a gift, and it wouldn't hurt America's economy. It was Canada who would bring America food, pay for the electricity and water, who would make sure America would eat, and clean himself. Every month, Canada came for at least a week to take care of America, but eventually, he always had to head back home, and America fell back into his slump.

When America was alone, the memories seemed to be louder, more real, and he wanted to fight, to hide, but there was nothing to fight. He felt exposed, naked, even when he was dressed, and he would pull more and more layers over his clothes, sometimes wearing up to five shirts and three pairs of jeans. America knew he was skinnier now, and clothes that were once tight-fit now hung loose on him, and the many layers were hot and uncomfortable.

But even so, America refused to strip, wrapping himself in a blanket and hiding in the coat closet, pulling the door shut, trembling at the touch of phantom hands, phantom invasions into his body, sweating, both from the stress, the fear and the heat. But no matter what America did, the feelings wouldn't go away, the voices and sounds still echoed in his ears. America was terrified, and shut himself off from everyone, refusing to watch the news, refusing to talk to his government, refusing to acknowledge he existed. 

Only Canada was allowed near, and it was Canada, who with America's permission, took over America's governmental duties. It was Canada who stopped trading with those involved, who made it clear to the United States government that America would have nothing to do with those countries unless absolutely necessary, and that the personification of the country would _never_ speak with them or meet with them. 

Canada's arms were America's safety, the only place that made the phantom touches disappear, his voice the only one to drown out the many others. When Canada was gone, America would sit, wrapped in his brother's clothes, and breath in the scent, trying to chase off the nightmares playing on the inside of his eyelids. Sometimes America got confused, and he thought Canada was there when he wasn't, or wasnt there when he was. 

At times like these, America would call out his brother's name hoarsely, pleading. "Mattie?" And if Canada was there, he would appear around the corner, crawling into the closet with America, pressing himself against his brother, no matter how sweaty or smelly he was, murmuring soft comforting phrases. When Canada wasn't there, only the silence would answer him, the closet remained dark, and empty. America's heart would speed up, faster and faster the longer he waited, until he though it would burst out of his chest, and the tears that never seemed to stop would trickle down his cheeks again. 

This time, though, America knew that Canada wasn't there. Canada wasn't coming for 3 more days, he knew. 3 more days, 6 more hours, and 25 minutes and 17737 seconds until Canada would arrive, 17736 seconds, 17735 seconds... But there was a familiar sound at the door, keys in the lock, the doorknob rattling, and America froze. He was terrified, blood pounding in his ears. It was them, they had found him. They were coming for him, they would force him again, hurt him-

He curled his hands over his ears, bringing his knees to his chest, muffling his panicked breaths in his sweater, one thought on repeat in his brain. "I want to disappear."


	8. Year 2 - Chapter 2

America hated how afraid he was, how scared, how angry he was inside. He hated how just a single noise, or an unexpected touch could send him spiralling into panic. America hated himself. If he wasn't "America, he would be fine, nothing would have ever happened. If he wasn't "America" then he would have died, the first time he had tried, or if not then, then the second, or the third. If he wasn't "America" he wouldn't have to feel like this everyday. America wanted to disappear, he wanted to dissolve. The great country he once was, the country he was so proud of, was something that represented everything America hated.

For the first time since he had begun to exist, America regretted that he existed. As the footsteps came nearer to his hiding place, America curled up tighter, stopped breathing altogether. "Please," he thought, begging to anyone out there powerful enough to grant his wish. "Make me disappear like Canada." But the footsteps stopped outside the door to the coat closet, and a familiar, gentle voice called, softly, coaxingly. "Al?" Canada's gentle tone rang out. "Al, it's me."

The gentle sound of his own name called in the famialr tone of his brother sent vibrations through America, and he let his hands slip from his ears. It was Canada, after all, he was okay, it wasn't them, they hadn't found him, they couldn't hurt him, he was still safe... He found himself responding to his own name, a plantitive plea leaping from his throat, demanding, needy. "Mattie?" The door opened and Canada was there, tucking his face into America, America's hands pulling, grabbing, holding Canada closer.

His brother's faint scent of maple and pine, the softness of his hair, the breath of fresh air he seemed to bring with him, America breathed it all in, deeply, slowly calming down, heartbeat reaching normal speed again. America didn't think why Canada was back early, just clung tightly, for what felt like forever. Finally, he forced himself to let Canada go, and his twin pulled back, his calloused hands slipping into America's own clammy palms, pulling America with him.

Quietly Canada led, and America followed. Neither spoke as Canada turned on the light, flicking the breakers to turn on the electricity. It wasn't until Canada had started filling the tub with warm, soapy water, pouring in strawberry scented bubble bath he had brought with him, that America made his first noise of protest. "Mattie.." He murmured, nervously, reluctantly, not wanting to indulge in such a luxury, not so soon after his economy had barely recovered..

But Canada shushed him, gently pulling off America's sweater, and if America hadn't known so clearly his brother's intent, if he hadn't craved so deeply his brother's attention, he might have panicked. But it was Canada, the only one America knew he could still trust, so America submitted himself to be stripped, limply, like a doll, unresistant. When he stepped into the warm soapy water, the bubbles lightly clinging to his skin as he went down, America had breathed something akin to a sigh of relief, of need.

Canada wet a washcloth and started on America's face, gently rubbing away at the dried sweat and grime. Finally, America found his words. "Mattie, I don't want to be America." He confessed as his brother's gentle hands wiped down his neck and shoulders. For a moment, Canada's hands faltered, but then they continued as before, a slight tremor added to his steady rhythm. "I know." Canada's voice was low, and America knew that it wasn't just a bluff, that Canada did truly know how he felt.

America leaned back into his brother's arms as the washcloth moved to his chest, quick and light. He was soaking his brother's clothes, he knew, but he knew just as clearly, that neither he nor Canada cared. "I want to dissolve America." He blurted the next words out and the washcloth fell from Canada's grip, splashing into the bubbles. America could feel Canada's heart speed up, pounding, and Canada's voice was high-pitched and strained as he responded. "You don't really mean that."

Canada poured some of the water over America's head, temporarily cutting off a response, and began to massage shampoo into America's scalp. "What would happen to your government, your people, if you do that? What about your land?" Canada avoided asking about what would happen to America, either because he did not want to think about it, or he did not want America to think about it. "Then, you can have me." America responded emptily. "The United States of America will become part of Canada."


	9. Year 3-Chapter 3

"No!" Canada's shout was loud, sharp, pained. America flinched at the tone, and the sudden pain as Canada's fingers tightened in his hair. "Then the rest can have my land." America continued, tonelessly. "They can fight over my states and take them bit by bit, I don't care." Somewhere, deep inside, a voice screamed at him to stop, begging "I don't want to disappear! I want to live!" But America was beyond that now, the voice nothing but an irritation to be ignored. 

He was angry, America realized. Furious that he had to go through such a thing, that he had to suffer, only because he was a country. Furious at the world, at Canada, for expecting him to go on, to keep living, like nothing had happened, and furious at the thought of a future where it might happen again. The more he thought about it, the angrier America got, and he spat out more words that fizzled like acid, falling angrily on Canada's ears. 

"I hate America." He growled, spitting the words. "I hate being a country, I hate the people, I hate the land, I hate the economy, I hate it all!" He continued, feeling something heavy and dark twist in his chest with every word. "It's because of America-" he choked, unable to say the words, unable to finish the sentiment, but it was enough. For the first time he became of his brother's fingers, frozen in his soapy, hair, then, shockingly, the absence, as Canada pulled away, jumping to his feet, glasses slipping from his nose and clattering to the floor. 

For a moment, both brothers stared blindly at eachother, gauging the atmosphere, Canada's short, gasping breaths and the drip of the faucet the only noise. Then, without warning, or response, Canada whirled, and his brother's blurry for disappeared as Canada fled the washroom. America dropped his head to his knees, nose only millimetres above the warm water, feeling more than ever like crying, but for once, the tears didn't come. 

It was half an hour, or maybe an hour later that Canada had returned to the bathroom, whispering a subdued apology, to drain the now cold and bubbless water, and spray away the soap and shampoo with fresh warm water. The bath was finished quickly, in silence, and America was dried off and dressed in new, fresh pajamas, smelling of Canada's laundry soap and Canada's scent. The pajamas were red and white dotted, or at least, it looked that way to America's blurry vision.

Canada didn't give America's glasses back, and America wondered guiltily if it was because Canada didn't want America to see his face. Canada had been crying,America knew, by the tone of his voice, the shaking in his murmured words, and the occasional sniffle. But Canada said nothing about it, so America followed suit. 

When Canada tucked America into bed, pressing a protein shake with a straw into America's hands, urging him to eat, America finally brought it up. "Are you angry?" He tested, timidly. A deep sigh came from his twin's blurry figure, and Canada scooted into bed next to America, pressing his back against America's side. "A little." Canada responded, and America turned to ice. What had he done? He'd turned the only person he had against him, and he managed to upset Canada, nice Canada, grin-and-bear-it Canada. He'd managed to upset one of the hardest nations to piss off in the world. 

Sarcastically, America congratulated himself for being just all-around useless, but Canada wasn't done yet, and continued. "I'm mad at everyone. I'm mad at Britain and France, because I thought they were family. I maddest at France, because he, of all people, told me love shouldn't be forced. I'm mad at China, old enough to know better, but he still did it. I'm mad at Russia and Japan, because they betrayed you, I'm mad at Germany for laying a hand on you, and at the Italy brothers for choosing this time to be agressive instead of cowardly."

With each name Canada spoke his tired voice got steelier. America cowered, trying to forget their names, to forget the faces of the one's who had been there, the expressions, to forget the apologies. But Canada wasn't done. "I'm angry at you, for trying to leave me behind." America flinched. Even though Canada still spoke in his ever quiet, even tone, America felt as though Canada was yelling at him, his words felt much louder, more aggressive. America nibbled at the straw on his drink, trying desperately to distract himself, to focus on anything else but his brother's words. 

Because if America accepted Canada's words, he'd have to admit to himself that it really was all his fault. It was his fault Canada was angry, his fault that his economy had failed, his fault that they had to do that to him- Canada's voice broke through America's thoughts, suddenly weary and exhausted. "But I'm mad at myself most of all." Canada finished tiredly. "I should have been there, I could have stoped them. I should have come earlier." Canada made a sound like a sob. "Its my fault, Alfred," 

America sensed the hated words just before Canada said them, tensing up, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry."

America dropped the drink, letting splatter on the bed. He screamed, loud, wordless, as though to drown out his brother's words, but it was too late. The harm had already been done.


	10. Year 4-Chapter 1

America was much lighter than he used to be, though even without working out, he retained most of his muscles and strength. America's strength was based on his country after all. Even though America didn't want to think about it, let alone acknowledge it, he knew that the other countries "help" had worked. He curled a little into himself at the thought, nauseated.

Even though he was still quite strong, many days America's legs felt too weak to support him, and he would collapse, crumpled on the floor, until Canada came to lend his shoulder to support America to the bed. But lately America had noticed that Canada too, stumbled as he helped America up, and that Canada's clothing seemed to hang a little bit too loose off his brother's shoulders, and that Canada too, seemed to eat less and less wren he was with America. 

America didn't watch the news, but Canada did, and sometimes in the background of a video call, he'd see the TV, muted, captions scrolling across the screen. Canada's economy was suffering too. But Canada didn't bring it up, and America wouldn't ask. Canada didn't come over quite as much anymore, between managing his own and America's governments, he was a lot busier. Besides that, America took care of himself now.

Though it was more a chore than anything, America followed the daily list Canada had left him, a laminated copy stuck to the wall of each room. 8:30, wake up, wash up. 9:20, get dressed, 9:40, eat breakfast, etc. America followed this list religiously, not because Canada had told him too, but because this list was the only reason he had to get out of bed each morning.

Even though he moved house from state to state every month, desperately trying to disappear and be forgotten, his house was filled with items. Even though America was sure he had sold everything not absolutely necessary when he first moved to this house, like with all the previous houses, there was Canada's gaming console on the coffee table, Canada favorite books on the shelf, Canada's snacks in the cupboard and Canada's music playing in the CD player.

America wasn't sure if Canada had done it to get back at him for something he had said, or because his brother had terrible taste in music, or maybe just so America would stop saying that "Anything is fine" when Canada turned on the music, but last month, Canada had put in a cd full of music that clearly even he didn't like, sung by a "Justin Beiber". Canada had seem strangely pleased when America had ripped the cd out of the player and snapped it in half, and he made it a habit to stick a couple of that artist's songs in his stack of Cd's, as though to purposely upset America.

It was little things like this America was secretly glad for. Little bits of brotherly teasing and petty pranks that made everything feel normal, like it used to be, that made America forget why there was so much of Canada's stuff in his house, and why he had to rely on the laminated lists to remember to eat, or play. But these little moments didn't last forever, and eventually, there was always something to remind him of the truth.

This time it was the suit Canada had hung up on the closet door, a grim reminder that Canada was leaving tomorrow. America could almost convince himself that he was back to normal, or at least the normal for a shut in. He got dressed and washed on his own, he remembered to eat, even when Canada left he didn't panic and crawl into he closet anymore. Instead, he would sit, dumbly, watching the tv without registering its content until the time changed to 4:00 pm and it was time to go make supper.

But not this time. This time America felt weak, scared, even panicked at the thought of Canada leaving. It wasn't because Canada was leaving that America was terrified, but rather where he was going to. The though petrified America, first turning his insides to ice, then to fire. A place America had been trying not to think about for three years, not since that time. Responsibilities he had been running from, and yet again this year, Canada was taking up the burden for him.

America didn't realize when he had curled himself into the blanket, head buried in Canada's pillow. He fought the fear the way Canada had taught him, breathing slowly, in and out, in and out. Even the thought of going outside, of being seen by other people, being judged, spoken to, or - God forbid- _touched,_ left America's skin crawling like insects were lost beneath his skin, trying to find a way out. Even as Americavs fingers twitched, as though imagining a blade to cut the bugs free, the door to the bedroom opened, and Canada's soft voice called out.


	11. Year 4- Chapter 2

"I'm going, Al." Canada stood hesitantly at the doorway, watching his brother's huddled form. America knew he should thank Canada for standing in for him at the meeting, not just this year, but last year too, but America didn't want to accept it, preferring to sulk. He knew full well that his feeling of betrayal was misplaced and hypocritical, that Canada wasn't abandoning him to go play with other countries, that Canada was doing it to help him, but still America was pouting.

"But why do you even have to go?" the other side of his brain, the less reasonable, more selfish and childish side, complained. "Forget them, forget everybody else, North America doesn't need anyone else." America's more rational side effictively forced him to clamp his lips together to prevent him from saying the childish words on the edge of his tongue. "K." He spat out, a little colder than he meant to, and Canada sighed. "I'm coming back, you know." His brother offered, placatingly. 

America responded with a noncommital grunt. "I'll be back in a week." Canada tried again. America didn't bother to grace this with an answer. Canada sighed. "I'll leave Kumasabora here with you." A gesture to the white polar bear, and America couldn't help but wish that Tony would return faster. Tony had set out to visit his home a few days before _it_ happened, and as far as America knew, he still was there. Time passed differently for aliens and countries.

Canada was murmurring to the bear, and America caught the whispered "Take care of him for me." which the bear responded to with a cool "Who are you?". Canada ignored the forgetful bear's question, and snaked his arms around America, pulling his unresponsive body into a hug. "I'll definitely come back, no matter what." Canada soothed, pressing a light kiss to America's forehead. For a moment that was all America wanted, and he felt calm, and that maybe everything might be okay, someday... 

But then Canada's weight left the bed, all too soon, and he barely caught the sound of his brother's whispered "See you later." over the rustle of his suit jacket. For a moment, America just felt numb, empty. The panic set in after he heard the door click shut, and Canada lock it firmly behind him, keeping America safe inside. For a second, America was in silence. Alone.

Then, with a desperate scrambled he had the CD player, throwing a cd into the player, it didn't matter what artist, what song, as long as it cut through the silence. He spotted Canada's discarded hoodie on the floor and dived for it. "Score!" He said the word for no other reason than there was no one here to hear his voice. He pulled in on and relished in the comfort, hating himself for needing it so desperately.

It scared America to realize how much he depended on Canada. It had already been four years, and an intrusive thought wormed its way into his mind, burrowing through the walls he put up to protect himself. "How much longer will Canada stay with me?" even the thought of Canada leaving him, of facing an empty house, not just for a week, but for months, years even, terrified America.

"Why am I so weak?" The intrusive thoughts multiplied, splitting into many smaller, dangerous thoughts. "I should be better by now, I should be back to normal!" America didn't realize when he had fallen into a huddled curl on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, head tucked down. America felt foolish, weak, and humiliated by himself. He tried not to focus on the pounding of blood in his ears, the tremble of his fingertips. He tried to focus on the song, the words, but they escaped him, the tune nothing but background music as his insecurities took over.

America didn't know how long he sat there, curled, or when the sun had set, plunging the once bright room into darkness. What woke America from his stupor was the ring of his cellphone, a familiar ringtone only Canada would have entered. He shot to his feet and stumbled on his numb legs, pins and needles racing through his feet, and snatched the cheerfully rigging phone off the table.

"Mattie!" He gasped as an answer, not bothering to wait for the greeting. He swayed with relief as the tension melted away at his brother's soft voice. "Hi, Al."


	12. Year 5-Chapter 1

"Again?" America woke up crying and pleading, and cursed at himself. It had already been five years since it happened, but somehow the nightmares still felt the same as as the first day. He wanted to curl over the toilet, to puke, emptying the semen from his stomach, to erase the aftermath from his body, but experience from many times before had taught him it would do no good, that the sensation he felt was imagination, a memory. 

Still, America felt filthy, wanting to scrub himself red until the feeling disappeared, until his skin peeled, raw to the touch, bruising. But then Canada would make that face again, his eyes soft and wet, his face crumpling and his hands shaking with tiny tremors. Like he wanted to cry desperately, but he wouldn't. As though Canada believed only one of the twins could cry at a time, and he'd reserved that right for America. 

God, America missed Canada. But the moment of weakness made him angry. He was so weak, so pathetic, so reliant on his brother. What had happened to the America who was the hero? The Amerca who was strong, who would stand up for himself and his brother? A tiny internal voice answered his questions. "They killed him. They shattered him into pieces. They betrayed and destroyed America." And America's heart was racing, the memories too vivid and clear in some parts, but too blurry in others.

He could remember their faces so cleary, the pathetic mixture of guilt and hope, like America would come to his senses and suddenly realized how happy he was they were doing him a favour, like they could all continue on as before. But the words that were spoken were muddled. Different versions of the same two words, spat, and offered and pleading laid before him: "I'm sorry." But what good had "sorry" done America then? It hadn't saved him when he had threatened, bargained, begged and pleaded. It couldn't save him now. 

What had he said to them? Had it been France who he had promised, brokenly, that he would fix this, that he could fix everything, if only he made it stop? Or was that Japan, once a close friend of his? Was it England who had soothed, telling him to breath, it will be okay, it will be over soon, even as everyone else lined up to use him? Who was the one he had spat the cruel words,only growing truer with every passing day, at? "I hate you." 

America had been sad, traumatized, broken, and hurt for so long, but America was just angry now. He was angry at the world, those involved for killing him, those not involved for not interfering. His brother, sweet Canada, for coming too late, his kindness and guilt a single band-aid on body full of open wounds. But most of all, most terrifying, was the creeping anger and hatred America had been growing, festering, toward himself. 

Was it the people's fault or his own that he had to go through that? Who should he blame? The Government, trying their best to resolve the crisis? His people, who were both penniless and in want and rich and in want at the same time? Himself? Should he accept what had happened as his punishment? If America had been better, done better, saved more money, been less luxurious, would everything had been resolved before it came too that? 

Canada would know. Canada would tell him, in soft, silky whispers, who was to blame, what America's part had been. His cool fingers would brush away America's bangs from his forehead and press gentler memories from before that time to America's forehead with a kiss. "It's not your fault." America could almost hear his twins whisper now, and felt pathetic at the way he craved it, like a druggie waiting for his next hit, eyes dilated, hand outstretched, mouth already half-opened in anticipation. 

The words were his drugs, his meaning. Without them, America tumbled into a dark place, full of eyes, and pointing fingers, accusing him. "Your fault." the voices accused. "You deserve this." America craved, desperately, his brother's assurance. Because, if it was his fault, then what should he do? America felt like if he were to admit that this was his fault, and accept it, he would break, shattering like a glass on a cement floor, and this time, not even Canada could put him back together.


	13. Year 5-Chapter 2

"It's not my fault." He tried the words on for size. They felt wierd on his tongue, then he was up, racing to the bathroom, facing himself in the mirror hanging there. Only it wasn't America looking back, it was Canada. It was Canada, speaking with America's voice, promising it wasn't America's fault, he didn't deserve this. But no, Canada's voice was never this empty, so clearly lying. His brother's face was never so desperate to believe his own words, his tone never so sharp and high. 

He tried again, making his tone softer, more alluring, making the words sweeter, kinder. "It's not your fault." Canada told him. "You don't deserve this." The tone changed, back to America raw anger, desperation. "But what if I do?" Then back to Canada's soothing tone, without conscious thought from America. "You don't." Canada promised. "I said so, didn't I? I said that it wasn't your fault." That was true, and America felt for a moment like he has curled on the floor in Canada's arms, like he was in the past, the first time he heard the words. 

Canada from his memories and Canada in the mirror spoke together, the next words meshing delusion and the past together. "Trust me." The words had a forceful tone, diamond underneath fleece, soft but unbreakable. "If you trust no one else, ever again, if you don't even trust yourself, trust me." and America did. The only one who hadn't betrayed him, who had stood by his side through it all, was Canada. So the next time the person in the mirror spoke, it was America, as himself, in a stronger, more steady tone than he'd used for a while. 

"It's not my fault." He said, and strangely enough, the face in the mirror looked like he believed it. His knees gave out, weak, shaking and he crumbled to the floor, shoulders shaking with thick sobs, but these were different than normal. Not sobs of helplessness, pain, or anger, but tears of forgiveness. For the first time since it had happened, America had forgiven himself.

Suddenly America had an urge to go outside, to escape the tiny house that he had imprisoned himself in, and to see the land, the people once again. Afterall, America wasn't just the personification, but also the people and land as well. Forgiving himself meant more than just Alfred. It meant everything. And America was up with a surge, steady on his own legs that were weak seconds before, and he would have rushed forward, through the bedroom, out the front door and into the world, just as he was, but then he caught a glimpse of his pajama-clad self in the bedroom mirror.

His eyes, as always, were bloodshot, his face pale and drawn, but steadily growing blotchy. His hair seemed greasy and unwashed. First, America decided, he would shower, then change. America was worried that his resolve, his will to go outside would disappear if not acted on right away, and showered as quickly as possible. Contrary to this thought though, he only grew more eager to go outside as the minutes passed.

What season was it? Fall? Or maybe early winter? The trees would be losing the last of their golden and red leaves, the ground littered with leaves that crunched, breath would catch and hang as frozen puffs on the misty Colorado air... The more America thought about it, the more eager he became. He was rushing by the time he pulled on his socks, tucking them underneath the hem of his jeans. He ruffled through his closet for a jacket, and hesitated at the sight of a familiar bomber jacket. 

For a moment his fingers brushed the surface, and then he thrust it away from him, denying the memory. His fingers closed around one of his brother's tan jackets, and he pulled in on, instantly surrounded by the feeling of Canada's warmth and scent. Then, with no thought to hat or mittens, America unlocked the door and burst outside. The first thing he noticed was how bright it was, the afternoon sun blinding him. Then he noticed how fresh the air smelled. He hadn't realized how stale the air was inside, how stifling. 

His feet were moving, and he was running to a place he instinctively knew, as well as he knew the back of his own hand. Stopping, breathless, on a bridge, and breathing the sharp, cool air. Everything that had kept him inside seemed so far away at that moment, and America leaned into the breeze, leaning on the guardrail, and for a moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe, America could become great again.


	14. Year 5- Chapter 3

America's peace was broken by the sound of a movement nearby, and instantly his heart jackhammered into overdrive. He shouldn't have left the house, he should have stayed hidden, they found him and he would have to face them, they would hurt him- Thoughts ran through his mind in a panicked muddle. Already he was grinding his heals into the ground ready to whirl and run on a moment's notice--but something stopped him, a child's voice, innocent and laughing.

"Tag!" The child, wrapped in a heavy jacket and scarf and topped with a fluffy hat, slapped a mitted hand against the back of America's knee, already running away, laughing. "You're it!" The child shrieked, giggling, running as fast as the chubby legs would allow. America turned to protest, that he did not, in fact, want to play, but the child was gone already, running to the swingset across the yellow grass.

America looked around, helplessly, and met the gaze of the woman watching carefully from the edge of the playground, a pile of bags at her feet. She nodded to him, encouraging. "It's okay, go play. " Her voice carried over the park. America knew that usually this woman - Lucy Kent, his mind supplied--would not be so open to letting her child play with a strange man, but in the same way America knew her name, her background, and that the child was Cameron, he knew that she felt a connection with America, beyond words.

All of his citizens did. Still, America's first step when awkward, uncertain. Then the child's voice rang out across the playground, sing-song and teasing. "Nana, nana, boo boo! You can't get me!" And America's gait changed into an easy jog, memories from long ago pulling at his legs, moving him to chase as the child shrieked with laughter, and darted away. 

By the time America finally caught the child, tapping Cameron lightly on the head and darting away, America's rusty skills were coming back. Not just his ability to play, but also to smile. His mouth tugged up at the corners, painfully, in a way America hadn't done for years. There was a sound like a man, laughing, and America realized with a shock it was him. Even after Lucy gathered her child and Cameron waved goodbye to America as they left, the smile still lingered at the edges of his mouth, the flush not leaving his face. 

But eventually, America realized he was cold, turning his feet towards home. This time America didn't hesitate when he saw the person standing on his front step, the red and white hat and maple-leaf clothing giving his identity away. America was high on excitement, overwhelmed by an overdose of positive emotions, so normally drowned out by the negative. America didn't stop to think, picking up speed and wrapping his arms around Canada from behind, almost causing his brother to drop his Tim Horton's coffee and scaring him out of his skin. America almost felt guilty at the way his twin jumped, eyes wide, panic edging his reactions, relaxing when he realized it was America, then freezing with shock. 

Almost. But already America was forgetting why he had been laughing, and though the flush didn't fade from his cheeks, and still, as though from muscle memory, his lips were twitching up. All of a second, America was hesitating, confused, faltering under Canada's shocked expression. Then the Tim's coffee splattered to the ground and America 's hug was returned, full force, and Canada's chest was shaking. For a moment, America panicked. He had ruined everything again, Canada was crying, why couldn't he do anything right? It was his faul- 

But Canada's chest wasn't shaking with sobs but with laughter, welling up from deep inside. America realized that Canada was laughing with relief, perhaps for the first time in years, his face the same easygoing, gentle Canada, as though his biggest worry was which team to root for during hockey, his usual sad expression completely gone, the wrinkled brow smooth, concern replaced with a large, dopey grin.

America wasn't sure how to react if Canada had asked why he went out, what had happened, or the reason for the change in his attitude, but Canada, ever sensitive hadn't asked, only grabbing America's hand and pressing a donut into it, gently scolding about the lack of gloves, then, with glittering eyes, suggesting, "Let's play road hockey tomorrow, eh?" and America felt the ghost of his earlier beam begin to form again.


	15. Year 6-Chapter 1

Canada felt the presence before he heard the voice, increasing his pace to put distance between him and the other, and most of all, a door. "America-San!" Japan's meek voice called out, and Canada whirled to face him, making sure his back was against the wall so no-one could sneak up on him. "No." Canada answered coldly. Japan froze, and Canada could tell that he was thinking "But I haven't said anything yet."

America was oblivious and blind to social cues, which was the reason he had walked into that trap so many years ago. But not Canada. He was good at reading the atmosphere and body language. He and America were a duo, no matter how much he sometimes hated it. America was his presence, his voice, able to draw attention and say what Canada couldn't because no one paid attention to him.

Canada was America's eyes and ears, hearing and seeing things that no other country could, things that were only revealed when someone thought they were alone. So when Japan approached, Canada already knew there was only three reasons for it. The first, and most unlikely was that he had a complaint against Canada blocking export to his country, and wanted to protest through America.

The second, and more likely, was that he had a similar complaint about America blocking off his trade routes, and wanted to argue/convince him to reopen them. The third, and most likely, given America's and Japan's previous friendship, and the latter country's extreme penchant for politeness, was that Japan wanted to apologize for what he had done, and beg forgiveness. Not that it was Canada's place to grant or reject that, but Canada knew, regardless, that the answer to all three questions was "no."

"America-San..." Japan tried again, submissively. Canada moved quickly, slamming him against the wall, pulling out a knife. "If you want to keep you tongue intact, I recommend you stop talking to me, now and forever." Canada hissed, allowing the knife to nick the other country. Japan's eyes flashed with fear, and something subtler, that Canada couldn't quite place. Regret? Guilt? The undefined emotion threw Canada off and he threw Japan away, making a hasty exit, but not before he saw Japan wipe away the blood from his mouth in a red smear, his eyes unreadable.  
  
Canada had been careful to make sure none of the countries had the chance to get close, showing up seconds before the meeting started, and leaving just before it ended, using his usual invisibility to his advantage. But it was harder for him to disappear as America, and the colder his attitude the more attention he drew, and he hadn't escaped fast enough today. Japan hadn't been the first to approach, Italy too, had called out to him as he left, but a single glance from Canada had turned him into stone. 

Canada's day only got worse when he saw France and England waiting for him at the door. He was so close, only a door away from escape, but there they were-blocking the path. Canada bit back a curse, then decided to hell with that, and did curse, his tone sharp and bitter. But it was too late to turn around and find a new escape. Russia had come up behind him, completely unaffected by Canada's icy aura, and every bone in Canada's body screamed at him to avoid Russia. 

So Canada squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and made as though to walk straight between France and England, fully intending to ignore them. And he almost did, chin high, glancing neither to the left or the right, ignoring France's cry to "Wait a moment!" It was the name England called that stopped him cold in his tracks. "Canada." France warned, and obediently his former colony found his feet stuck to the tile floor.

Too late, Canada realized that he shouldn't have reacted, he should have played it off, but now it was too late. His reaction was all his former parental figures needed to confirm his identity, if they had any doubts. Canada leaned forward, perching on the edges of his toes, preparing to bolt, but France spoke quickly. "We need to talk." He said, gently, as though calming a frightened animal. "You don't have to come with us, we won't make you, but you might prefer to speak with us alone, _Canada._ " 

The slight emphasis on his name was subtle, but Canada understood the veiled threat behind it. If he didn't want everyone to know he wasn't America, he had to go with them.


	16. Year 6-Chapter 2

America knew something was wrong the moment Canada entered his house. His brother didnt rush to him, examining him, pulling America into his arms. Instead, Canada seemed hesitant, scared almost, and refused to meet America's eyes. Years ago, this would have terrified America, and he would have ran, hiding even from Canada, scared of what Canada intended to do, what might have already been done, or set in motion. Scared that Canada would have, in his mistaken kindness, revealed his hiding place to one of them.

But America had changed. He'd learned to trust Canada, undeniably, infallably. Canada had been the only one to support him through everything, and America was certain that if Canada said to jump off a cliff, he would jump without a second thought. But no, it wasn't trust. It was something uglier, more twisted. All the faith that America had lost in the rest of the world, in those he once considered to be family and friends, was poured into Canada, heavy and stifling.

No, it wasn't trust, it was comfort. Canada, so quick to forgo his own wants and give into America's demands, Canada, who sensitively read the mood, and never pushed America if he was uncomfortable, Canada who came when America called, rolled over and showed his stomach like a dog to avoid conflict, and took up the extra burden of America's responsibilities as well as his own, and was suffering for it, growing thinner, weaker.

It was Canada who willing gave up everything to keep America happy, and America who knew this, but still greedily demanded more. That's why, America knew that if Canada were to ask something of him, he wouldn't ask something America couldn't do, and that whatever his brother asked would be important. America knew that Canada's first priority was always him, and because of this narcissistic thought, he knew Canada's request was in his best interest.

But it didn't stop his skin from crawling, non-existent insects writhing under his flesh, his fingers digging into his palms, uncut nails leaving small, bloody half-moon, when he heard Canada's hesitant suggestion. "Hey, Al.." Canada began, half dressed, counting his ribcage in the mirror. America too, was counting, half concerned, half selfishly pleased that his brother sacrificed so much for him. "Do you remember..." He trailed off, swallowing, and the tension sent shivers down America's back, followed by a deep sense of foreboding.

"I-" Canada restarted, choked on his words, then restarted again, stumbling over the words. "I was thinking of going to see Kyle." Canada's tone wavered, but he determinedly used his extended family's human name, and America knew Canada was trying not to upset him. Even so, the half-moon cuts on his hands barely kept America grounded as Canada cautiously continued.

"It will be quiet, secret, just him." He twisted his hands together, then hid behind the fabric of his shirt, pulling it over his head as he continued, using it as a safety net. "I don't want to go alone." Canada blurted, pathetically, untruthfully. He was appealing to America's heroic side, the need to protect, and America knew it.

But that America didn't exist anymore, and America tired to block out the words. He didn't know when his hands had gone up to block his ears, or when Canada's babbling had turned high pitched, panicking. America wanted them all to away. He wished every other country on earth would disapear, and just leave the continent of North America alone, forever. Truthfully, America wanted to scream, to throw something heavy across the room, or something breakable and watch it shatter.

But, despite the viscous satisfaction that would give him, America didn't throw anything, he didn't scream. Because he knew he didn't need to make a scene to be heard, he didn't need to break something to draw his brother's attention. Canada's eyes were always, _always,_ on America. Even as he was pretending to be busy dressing, Canada's eyes were watching him through the mirror, nervously gauging his reaction.

America knew that whatever he said, Canada would go along with. If he said he would go to meet Australia, Canada would go with him, and stay with him, no matter what happened next. But he also knew that if if he refused, Canada would accept that too. Canada, for all of his kindness, lacked the firmness to force America out of his shell, and America was not above taking advantage of that.


	17. Year 7-Chapter 1

It had been years since America had been to a world meeting, although to most countries, it seemed like it had only been the first two years America had not gone. Then, on the third year, just when they would no longer be able to ignore his absence, "America" had made an appearance. He had entered the meeting in a suit, not his military uniform, cold and uncaring. He had refused to meet anyone's eyes, and said nothing about any of the other countries plans or issues or ideas. He had said his part, cooly, only in regards to his country, and Canada's, had ignored all responses, then left without a backward glance.

The same thing had happened the next year, and the next. It was now the seventh year since that incident, and America had not forgiven anyone. America had closed off all trades that weren't necessary for his country, and Canada blocked export for maple syrup to any of the countries involved. It soon became apparent that what they had assumed would eventually blow over, was never going to change.America was shutting himself off from the rest of the world. 

And America still had yet to make an appearance at a meeting. The first few years, England had been the first to notice, but has stayed quiet. Eventually, he told France. Only these two, who raised the twins, could tell them apart, and only England, who raised them together, knew that it was not "America" who came to each meeting, but "Canada." No one else had seemed to notice that Canada never came, so it had continued like this for years.

It was last year that England and France cornered Canada and used a combination of pleading, cajoling and mild threats to insist that America must come to the next meeting. Canada had laughed sardonically and commented bitterly "What? Haven't you forced him enough, eh?" Before kneeing France in the groin and making his escape. France and England had tried to be understanding, but they couldn't wait any longer. As much as they hated to do it, they knew that it was time to let everyone else know of the brothers' farce.

So France raised his hand just before the meeting ended. "Germany recognizes France." Germany acknowledged. "What is is? " France stood up and he saw Canada tighten, pushing back his chair, tense and ready to escape. "I just had a question for Canada." France announced and the counrty in mention lept to his feet, hand on his belt, where France could now see a hidden firearm. "Canada?" the name was whispered around the table as the countries tried to remember who he was, and then, how long since they had seen him.

"How long are you going to play pretend for America?" France challenged, throwing his words across the table like a heavy object. Canada had his hand on the firearm, and his back to the window behind him. Germany was the first to clue in. "That's Canada?" He turned quickly from Canada to France. "Its always been Canada." England said grimly, answering for France. "Since that time."

The mention of that time cause ripples around the table. Those involved showed various expressions of remorse, guilt, regret, and shock. Those not involved still had an idea of what had happened, and showed disgust, fear, anger, and sadness." Germany was stumbling, hand to his head. "This whole time?" He shook his head. "Nein, it is impossible." "It's not." France said, his face a mixture between regret and determination. "I'm sorry, Mon cher, But we warned you. You can't stand in for America forever." He aimed the second part towards Canada.

Canada snarled. "Why not?" his words hung on the air. "Because he's a super power country?" Each word he formed like an arrow, shooting them from his lips like deadly projectiles. "So what?" Canada continued, mercilessly. "Didn't do him much good. Besides, I'm the second largest country in the world. When was the last time any of you realized I wasn't at a meeting?" his words sent shockwaves over the table as the nations present one by one remembered who Canada was, and tried to remember when they'd last seen him.

"I knew from the beginning." England responded, cooly. "I knew it was hard for him, so I overlooked it, but this has gone on too long." Canada made a face as close to a sneer as his gentle countenance would allow. "I've been absent from meetings long before that." He shot back. "I couldn't save America back when it mattered because no-one had bothered to tell me what was going on. No one notices when I don't show up, so I stopped. I've never regretted it more." his voice wavered, breaking.


	18. Year 7-Chapter 2

Canada hadn't made his escape fast enough. He had been angry, at the countries who hurt his brother, who ignored him, at the family that betrayed him. He had been holding this anger for too long, and so, he was more than happy to let it out. This was his undoing, while he argued, his escape routed was cut off, and all of a sudden, Canada realized his one firearm would be no good against hundreds of unkillable countries.

America never stayed in one state more than a month. He constantly moved, sometimes three times a month, to a different place, desperately erasing his presence, terrified of being found by them. Usually, Canada knew where he was, but whenever America's country had an economic problem, or even just a slightly larger problem than normal, America dissapeared. It wasn't that he didn't trust Canada, but he couldn't risk it, wouldn't risk it.

So when Russia slammed Canada against the window, cracking it, crushing the useless gun under his foot, and demanded to know where America was, Canada was able to honestly say "I don't know." Russia wasn't buying it, and he twisted his fish in Canada's suit, popping the button. "Do not lie to Russia." He threatened. Canada was unaffected. "oh, sorry, eh, I forgot, he's in nunya." Canada offered, clearly sarcastically. "Nunya?" Russia asked, a warning light in his eyes. 

"You're wasting your time." England cut in, before Russia could fall for it. Russia froze, dangerously, turning to look at him. "Hmm?" "I've raised Canada since he was little." England explained, unfazed. "I know better than anyone that the more you try to force him the more stubborn he gets. You need to convince him." Canada snorted. "Good luck." He muttered. France tried for a placating smile. "Canada, mon garçon, You know that America is not doing well, he needs to reopen his trade routes."

"I'll pass it along." Canada said stiffly. France was patient. "You're suffering too." He said urgently. "You are losing profits by not exporting your main commodity. If you continue like this your economy will be the next to fail." France could tell as soon as the words were spoken that they were the wrong choice. Behind his anger and hurt, Canada's eyes betrayed fear, and his fingers trembled. "Then what?" Canada's voice lost its bite, becoming quieter, more pointed. "Will you rape me too, papa?"

The combination of the truth no one would say, the upcast eyes with hurt, fear, anger, and betrayal, and the title Canada had referred to France as when he only little and innocent, struck France through the heart. France stumbled, suddenly feeling nauseated. Russia automatically released Canada and grabbed France by the arm.

This was the opening Canada was waiting for. He quickly smashed the window glass Russia had cracked already, then jumped. He felt someone grab his jacket as he fell, and quickly slipped out of it. He dropped the three floors to the ground, landing with a sickening crack. Even as the other countries were rushing after him, Russia and Japan easily following him out the window, he whistled, sharp and commanding, and a majestic animal, larger than a car, gallopped around the corner, shaking its heavy antlers.

"An elk." England breathed, eyes wide. Canada reached up and grabbed ahold of the animal, swinging himself and his broken leg on top. For a moment as the animal circled around it seemed like Russia might fail, that Canada would escape. But then Japan appeared out of nowhere in the animal's path, and it balked, startled, just for a moment, but that was enough. Canada was dragged off the moose, and held down under Russia's strong grip. Canada was captured.


	19. Year 7 - Chapter 3

"Where did you last see America?" Russia demanded, pulling Canada's face out of the barrel of water for the fifth time. Canada sputtered, coughing, before answering. "In Ottawa." He managed, still hacking. At Russia's glare, Lithuania checked the lie detector. "It's the truth." He relayed. If Canada's face hadn't been so bruised and swollen from the "rough" interrogation, he might have smiled. It was, technically, the truth. The last time he had seen America, he had been in Ottawa, face timing his brother. But he didn't mention those details.

Russia threw his metal pipe against the wall in frustration, and China snapped "enough!" at him. "We've been doing this for hours!" China continued. "It's just like England said, we're not going anywhere with this." Russia growled angrily, but instead of beating Canada again, stalked out of the room. "My turn again?" Germany asked tiredly, slipping on his gloves. "It's no use." England said from the shadows, where he was pretending he didn't see what they had done to Canada.

He was right of course. They had been interrogating Canada for hours, and the information that he had given was either useless or contradicting. He could have told them that he honestly did not know where his brother was once they attached the polygraph, but Canada preffered to keep their attention on him, not America. Japan approached, eyes glinting with intellegence. "I want to check something." He said softly, and upon a nod from Germany, turned to Canada.

"Why was America in Ottawa when you spoke to him?" He asked Canada, and Canada felt a flash of unease, but responded honestly. "America wasn't in Canada." He answered. "He hasn't been to Canada since before that time." Lithuania nervously checked the polygraph. "Truth." He announced. "That's not possible!" Germany snapped, looking at the machine. "Are we sure it's not broken?" "It's not broken." Japan answered. "We've just been asking the questions wrong." 

"Why do you mean?" England asked sharply. Japan was searching Canada's face, and Canada tried hard to keep it neutral. "Russia asked 'Where did you last see America?' He should have asked:" Japan took Canada's pulse as he spoke, "Where was America when you last saw him?" Canada's heart sped up, and he knew Japan felt it. "At his house." He responded reluctantly. The change in his answer elected a gasp from England and Lithuania, and China eagerly bounced to his feet. 

"Where is his house?" China pressed. Canada hesitated a little too long. "he has more than one." Canada admitted, but less sure of himself. Japan had the look of a cat that has just found a mouse, and now everyone in the room knew how to ask their questions to get the right answer. The questions came faster now that they were getting answers that made sense. 

"When did you last see America in person?" 

"Last month."

"Which state was America staying in then?" 

"Delaware." 

"Is America in still in Delaware?" 

Silence. Then, quietly, 

"I don't think so." 

Germany caught the hesitation. "Canada," he said slowly, firmly. "Do you know where America is now?" 

"Yes!" A little too fast, a little too desperate. Lithuania gave the verdict. "Lie." he announced. England cursed, slamming his hand down on the table. "So you've been leading us on this whole time." Canada's face was undeniably guilty, but his words were unapologetic. "I told you at the meeting I didn't know where he was."

"Dammit!" England snapped. "Why can't you just understand that we're just trying to _help_?" Canada had enough. "Because last time you "helped" you broke America so badly that he tried to disappear, not just as a person, but as a country!" Canada returned, viciously, angrily. Everyone froze. "What?" England demanded, and Germany looked suddenly sick, probably thinking of his own brother upstairs. Canada, however, did not care about how horrified England, Japan, or Lithuania looked, and continued harshly. "He wanted to dissolve. He told me that he wanted to become part of Canada, or that he should just let all you have him, tear him apart piece by piece, since you seemed to like that idea so much!" 

Canada's voice was breaking, as the generally nice country was not use to be angry or cruel for any period of time, and his façade began to fall apart." I had to talk him out of it. " He continued, but his gaze was unfocused, as though he was seeing a different scene. Tears glittered at the edges of his eyes. "I almost lost my brother forever because of you!" His tone turned sharp again and he glared at the surrounding nations. "So, sorry for not being cooperative, but I think America and I can do just fine without your help!"


	20. Year 7-Chapter 4

After a hurried conversation with the countries gathered, minus Russia, who was still gone, they decided there was no point to continuing to interrogate Canada, as they were getting nowhere and only wasting their time. Germany released Canada in the same way he had locked him up and interrogated him; cooly, business-like and completely detached. England hadn't looked sure if he wanted to slap Canada, hug Canada, or beg forgiveness from him.

Canada ignored him completely, much like Japan and China were doing to him. France, who had preferred to hide in the next room with Italy, and a few other countries, lept to his feet when Canada came through the door, and at the sight of Canada's bruised and swollen face, instantly sank back down, crying into his hands. "What are we doing?" France moaned. "I only wanted to protect him, so why?" Canada silently accepted the ice-pack Italy gave him, swallowing past the lump in his throat. 

"I'm going to the bathroom." Canada announced cooly. "I'm assuming I'm currently a prisoner?" "It's not like that!" Italy pleaded. Canada gave him a pitying look. "Stop being so dramatic!" Romano demanded, less emotional than his brother. "I'll come with you." He decided. It was easy for Canada to hide a smirk under his swollen face. He had to get out of there, fast, before Russia returned and before they thought of using him as a hostage to get America. 

Only moments after they entered the bathroom, Romano, tumbled to the ground, unconscious. Canada moved quickly, unlocking and opening the bathroom window. It was a tightfit, but he knew he could fit through,. He had done it before, after all, after he had been locked in once, completely unitentionally. The custodian simply hadn't realized he was in there when he locked the door. His broken leg had already healed, and it wouldn't take long for his face to heal too. For a moment, Canada thought guiltily of France's tearstained face, but shook the thought out of his head. If France truly cared, he would stop doing things to hurt them. 

Just as Canada started to squeeze out the window, one of the bathroom stalls opened and a country walked out. Instantly Canada went into panic mode. All this country had to do was call out and Canada would be caught, trapped, and everything would fall apart. But Switzerland made no noise, only stepped silently over the fallen Romano and proceeded to wash his hands. He didn't acknowledge Canada directly, but murmured, seemly to the mirror. "I'm neutral. I won't get involved." then he continued on his way. 

Canada stood shocked for a moment, then he felt relief was over him. He reminded himself that not all countries were part of it. Not his friend the Netherlands, not the smaller countries like Costa Rica or Kenya, or netrual countries like Switzerland and Litchenstien. There were actually only a few countries involved, the larger ones, and family. If it weren't for Russia and China, America might have been able to fight them off. He could have escaped, even japan's ninja skills with his strength, but the two larger, stronger countries had overpowered him.

Canada made a mental note to send some maple syrup to Switzerland later as a thank you, and slipped out the window. He moved quickly, stopping by Russia's familiar car first, and a thought occurred to him. "They can't catch me without a car." So he opened up the hood and jerked an handful of the wired out with his bare hands, stuffing them in his pocket. At the best, it would stop the car from ever starting, at the least it would definitely cause problems, if not an accident. Canada couldn't help secretly hoping that the drivers would get badly hurt. 

He continued, ripping wires from several more cars, leaving Switzerlands shabby vehicle unaffected, and then once again summoned his moose. The whistle drew the attention of France, bringing him to window, as Italy's cry alerted the rest to the unconscious Romano. 

"He escaped!" China announced, and Germany cursed. "That's fine." Japan reflected. We just have to watch him. Sooner or later he'll lead us right to America."


	21. Year 7-Chapter 5

As soon as Canada realized that he wasn't being followed, he knew he'd have to disappear. If they could find him, they could find America through him. Luckily, Canada's forté was disapearing. So Canada gathered a few supplies, packed his moose, and traveled north. The colder, the safer. Canada met Kumajiro at the edge of the Northwest Territories, where they had arranged. He had known that something would definitely happen this year's meeting, and thought he was prepared.

But he hadn't been. They had overwhelmed him and controlled him, and if not for a lucky break and Switzerland's I-don't-give-a-crap attitude, then he could have put America in danger again, or, something even more terrifying - he could have been put through what America had been. He felt guilty, being more scared for his own safety than his brothers, and tried to push the selfish thought away. Canada was almost glad he couldn't go see America right now, because he felt as though he had failed him.

He stopped on the border, and used his satellite phone to call America. "Hi Al." He said tiredly when America picked up. "Where are you calling from?" America asked a little too tensly to be casual. Canada responded using the passcode America had given him. "I'm calling from Davie's house." America seemed to relax. "Hey Mattie. What happened?" Canada smiled at the concern in America's voice.

"Pretty much as we thought. They wanted you to show up. They said that you need to stop closing yourself off." There was silence for a moment, then America's tiny tone. "Oh." "Listen," Canada began, shifting from foot to foot. "Me and Kuma are going to go off the grid for a bit. You should too, eh?" America silent for a moment and then he responded, in a strained tone. " I already am." Canada was just about to hang up when America asked another question. "Are you okay?" Canada froze.

"Don't just say you're fine, either." America continued, "You're hurt, aren't you? I can hear it in your voice." Canada chose his words carefully. "I'll heal." "What happened?" America demanded again, worriedly. "A lot." Canada sighed. "They want me to tell them where you are, and stop banning exports to their lands. You know." but Canada couldn't erase the line of tension from his voice. "Did they... To you?.." America choked out, his voice lined with terror. Canada knew what he was talking about instantly, and cringed. "They didn't. It's not to that point yet."

Neither Canada nor America mentioned the "Yet" hovering over that sentence. "Call me on this phone if you need me." Canada said thickly through the lump in his throat. "You too." America responded, then added, "They're right, Mattie." before ending the call with a click, leaving Canada with his pulse racing, fear creeping in. For the first time, Canada realized that he had been given an ultimatum. Either he and America reforge their trade routes and their alliances, or both of them would suffer through what America had already suffered once.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Canada hitched Kumajiro to his dog sled, loaded his supplies, and got on. "Mush!" he commanded, and as the sled shot off across the snow, Canada couldn't help but feel terrified, as though something dark and horrible was only seconds from catching him.


	22. Year 8-Chapter 1

Shortly after Canada's escape from the last meeting, two things happened. The first was that not only Canada, but America too, had reopened the old trade routes, reset the old arrangements, and Canada was once again exporting his goods to all countries, even those involved. The second thing that happened was that Canada, the person, disappeared. Or at least, that had been his intention.

All of the countries knew that they had gone about it the wrong way. They had done things violently, forcefully, and because of that, for the second time, England lost the North American twins. The group had divided. Germany, and China had given up, saying "Let them destroy themselves then!" And blindly, Italy followed Germany, and Romano had long ago stopped caring.

England had believed that it was too late to appeal to the children with kindness, that they had blown their chance, and that force was the only option." It's no use. " He had repeated stubbornly. "I raised them, I know them best! The only way to get through to them is to break them down completely, and rebuild them from scratch!" He had shouted the words, angry at the truth, at himself. Japan had silently agreed with England, eyes downcast, voice low and pained." we can't go back." he said, softly. "They are hurt and afraid. If we let our guard down they will destroy us."

"That's not right!" France had pleaded. "if we hurt them, we need to show sincerity, apologize with our own blood, be gentler than ever before to win back their trust!" But they had not listened to him, and the group had spilt and left, leaving France alone and crying for his children. Or, at least France had thought he was alone. 

It was Russia, who had stayed out of it since last year, who provided France a ray of hope. At first France had been startled when Russia emerged from the shadows, but his words had quickly caught his attention. "You need to talk to Canada." Russia had rumbled. "He is scared. If you convince him, America will follow him." He had ran his fingers across the chipped table, sadly. "I know. Where America goes, Canada will follow, and vice versa, no matter what."

"It does not matter, 'e is missing!" France had dismissed his words with a sob, unafraid of Russia's hulking figure, or violent tendacies. To France, there was no difference between Russia's tantrums and England's. Both childish and destructive. Perhaps because Russia knew that France did not treat him like a monster, he offered valuable information. "I know where Canada is." His words changed the tide of the storm.

France heart was raging again, like a storm at sea, but this time in a different way. "Where?" France demanded breathless. "Ou est mon sacré garçon?" "In the North of Canada." Russia admitted. "I will take you." France hugged Russia out of pure joy, no thought to it. "Merci!" He sniffled. "I am so glad you found him!"

"I never lost him." Was Russia's careful answer. "I always knew where he was." He watched France carefully for his reaction. "Why?" France responded, innocently, curiously. No anger or reprimande in his tone, just the want to know. That was the response Russia had been looking for. "I am tired of hurting my friends." Russia's words were heavier than his childish personality should have allowed. 

Again, Russia's fingers were tracing the the chipped table, as though the chips meant something special, or at the least, to give him something to focus on besides his words. "They were the only ones who used my name." Russia admitted. "America and Canada called me Ivan." France knew the importance, the way it felt, to have someone call a country's human name. It always personal, trusting, a sign of closeness. 

"America always faced me head on." Russia continued. "He was never afraid of me before." The image of the way America had cringed away, curling up into himself brokenly, was unforgettable, not only to Russia, but France too. "Canada was the only one I could go all-out against in hockey." Russia continued, remembering how he felt the first time he played Canada, the thrill of adrenaline, and something like fear, a realization that he was going to lose. It was exciting. 

France reached his hand up and ruffled Russia's hair, awkwardly." Then let's go get him back, oui?" Russia's purple eyes were wide at the gesture, but all he said was "Da. I will take you." France drew back, deep in thought. "No, not me." He decided. "He won't come to me any more. " Russia watched, trying to figure out where France got going with this thought. "Then who?" Russia asked. 

"Canada loves his family." France replied, already pulling out his cellphone. "He won't let me near, but perhaps," The phone picked up and a strange French voice picked up, female and berating. "Seychelles." France said softly, vutttinng of her tirade. "I need your help."


	23. Year 8-Chapter 2

"Really?" Canada strained at the tape, weakly. "We gave you what you wanted!" His cry was half enraged, half desperate. "I'd expect this from Russia!" He snapped, angry at not getting a response. "Or even Germany, but you, of all people?" Canada spat angrily. "I trusted you!" Seychelles flinched, bursting into tears and fleeing the room. "Don't be like that!" France scolded, tiredly. "I just got her involved so we could talk. You wouldn't meet with me if I didn't do this."

"You got that right." Canada hissed. "If this is just a 'talk' then why am I tied up?" He tested his restraints. Of course, he wasn't so weak that he couldn't break through them at any time, him remaining restrained was just a formality until he found out what France wanted. France sighed. "Can you promise you won't run away if I release you?" Canada frowned, but he wasn't cut out to be cold, and already his words were less sharp. "Depends on what you try to do to me, eh?"

"I told you, I just want to talk!" France pleaded. "Like you had just wanted to 'talk' with America?" Canada's voice was guarded, untrusting. "That was different, we were trying to 'elp him!" France argued, exasperated. Canada's walls went up again, his expression turning neutral, poker-faced. "Are you going to 'help' me too?" Canada's expression was neutral, but his voice trembled slightly, betraying his fear, and instinctively he leaned back, away from France.

"No! Yes! Not like that!" France was flustered, and he cursed lightly in French. He locked his tired eyes with Canada's, and pleaded, "Can't you trust me? I promise I will not harm you." Canada hesitated, and France added, "Mon cher fils, Please. I swear, I will not hurt you." Canada twisted his arms, snapping the tape, breaking free, but he didn't attempt to run, only stepped behind the chair, using it to create a barrier between him and France.

"Desolé, Papa," Canada murmured brokenly, "Mais I cannot trust you anymore." Even as he said the words he knew it was the truth. How could he trust someone who had treated his brother like that, broken him so perfectly, emotionally and physically. How could he trust someone who had faced his son, crying, _pleading_ , with tears in his eyes, begging for his father to save him, and had not only turned a blind eye, but _helped_ to break him?

What separated Canada from America? The answer was as difficult to admit as it was blaringly obvious. Nothing. If England's favorite hadn't been able to escape, then no matter how favoured he was by France, Canada too was only one mistake away from being in America's place. This terrified Canada more than he'd like to admit. Canada wasn't as strong as America emotionally, he wasn't sure, that if it came to it, he could survive the stress.

"What do you want?" Canada caved, exhausted by the constant guard. His voice was almost as tired as France's, and Canada carefully avoided his father's eyes, afraid that if he were to look into them, his resolve would break completely and he would throw himself into France's arms, give him what he wanted, abandoning America to save himself.

Canada was tired of supporting, of comforting. He wanted to be supported, to be comforted too. But he'd been playing America's sheild for so long he'd almost forgotten the reason for it. But not quite. Sometimes Canada looked at America and saw him from seven years ago, pressed against the wall, bloodied, frenzied, hurting and alone, and Canada forgot everything else he was doing and knew he needed to comfort his brother, to hold him so that America couldn't leave him. 

And sometimes America was like he used to be, laughing, eating, facing off against Canada is basketball and winning game after game, but at more than a glance, even these were shallow imitations. His laugh, too light, too hesitant, they way he ate, designed to make him look like he was eating. But only ever consuming small amounts of food. Even when they played and America completely destroyed Canada, America didn't boast, or bully Canada. Canada had never thought that he would miss being bullied, but he would do anything to get the old America back.

The ones who had stolen America were nothing more tan the theives, taking what they didn't deserve. Canada directed his harsh glare to the offender in front of him. He would never forgive him.


	24. Year 8-Chapter 3

"I won't tell you anything about America." Canada warned, guarded and cold. The response caught him off guard. "That's fine." France responded calmly. "It's not him I want to talk about. It's you." Canada turned to stone, shocked. His rationality warned him to be careful, not to fall for it, but something else, more animalistic, was already enthralled. How long had it been, since someone had worried for Canada, not America? Who had spoken to Canada, as Canada, to help Canada?. 

France spoke soothingly, his words like honey and oil. "I'm worried about you.You are not well, chérie." Canada's instincts lit his nerves on fire and he fought the panic again. "I'm fine!" He insisted, high and sharp, slamming a hand against the oak table. "I'm still strong! See?" The table split in half, and France flinched. Solid oak was heavy and thick, not easily breakable. But he continued anyways.

"Not physically." France murmured softly, moving like a breeze, with no sudden movents, to Canada. Canada barely had time to flinch before France was in front of him, lightly tapping his ex-colony's forehead. "Here." France's honeyed words were strained with sorrow. Canada didn't jerk away, instead raising his eyes pitifully to France's. "Your mind is sick, sacré garçon." France pressed, sadly. 

"You have been trying, too hard, too long, to fix your brother." He continued, slowly taking Canada's hands loosely, one by one. Held, so that Canada could feel him, but not so he couldn't escape. "But what about you?" France whispered the words into Canada's hair. "When does Canada rest?"

France wasn't called the land of love for nothing, and it shone through in his voice. Behind the tiredness, the guilt, the regret, sorrow, and his sugary tone, Canada could feel real love there and he craved it desperately. Without conscious thought, Canada was relaxing into France's arms, his eyes pricking with unshed tears. "You don't need to tell me anything about America, or anyone else. Just forget about him, even if only briefly. Rest, mon cher, my dear."

France's whispered promised removed the last obstacle holding Canada back and he let himself sink completely into France's arms, exhausted." Je suis fatigué, Papa.' Canada murmured, even as he faded into unconsciousness. "I know." France responded in less than a whisper. "Je t'aime."

When Canada woke, the soft soothing hands brushing at hi forehead almost sent his back to sleep, but the inherrant wrongness of the situation sent him shooting up in the bed. Instantly the hands pulled back, and Canada prepared to fight, to struggle, no restraints could force him to stay there. But we wasn't restrained. His arms and legs were both free, the door cracked open, letting in the scent of fresh pastries and coffee.

He could hear France humming an old French lullaby as he cooked in the kitchen, and turned wide-eyed to look at his sister. Seychelles noticed his gaze on hers and spoke for the first time. "You looked exhausted, big brother." Canada shook off that statement. He felt more rested than he had in a while, and his weakness from yesterday felt like a betrayal against America. He started to get up, but Seychelles was speaking again.

"I'm sorry I lied to you." She said softly. "I didn't want to hurt you, but I was scared that if I left you, I would lose my brother." Her words resonated with Canada, a sentiment he too, had felt, all too often. "My family is broken." She continued in her thick accent, and Canada knew that nothing was truer. "But you're still my family." She continued." I don't want to lose any of you."

Her words reminded Canada of his duty, and he climbed out of bed, reaching for his cell, already murmuring an excuse. "I can't stay. I have to go back to him. He's all alone." But Seychelles layed à gentle hand on his back. "America is not alone anymore. You can rest." He words did nothing to soothe Canada, instead terrifying him, and he whirled to face his brownskinned sibling with wide eyes. 

Seychelles pulled out her phone, displaying a picture to Canada. "I haven't told anyone, and I won't. Just you." Canada swayed on his feet. The picture, clearly recent, showed America and another country, in a selfie, America looking away from the Camera, face a mix of apprehension and determination, Australia's face clearly in the middle of a laugh, eyes closed, a beam spread across his face. 

So he had done it after all. When Canada had suggested they meet Australia two years ago, America had shut down, refusing, but had eventually agreed to a phone call, with a look of a child forcing themselves to eat something they don't like. Canada had expected America to have a panic attack, or shut down because of the call, but surprisingly, America had taken quickly to his lively siblings jaunty tone and constant laughter. 

Canada had known that his brother still spoke to Australia, but not that they had met in person, or hung out. Seychelles swiped the picture away. "See?" She said soothingly. "America doesn't need all your attention anymore. It's time for you to rest, brother."


	25. Year 9 - Chapter 1

It had been a while since Canada saw America, almost 9 months. Even so, Canada didn't want to leave France's house. The smell of buttery croissants, France's shampoo, the attention that France always turned directly on him and that Canada soaked up like a sponge, and the occasional visits from Seychelles, were all things Canada cherished.

He hadn't forgotten, of course. Canada only had to close his eyes to see his brothers broken expression. America had called, only once, to leave a message that Canada hadn't received till he woke up, declaring that America would once again do his duties as the countries representitive. Canada had been more than happy to remove the extra chore, feeling as though a burden was lifted from his shoulders, but more than that, thrilled at the tone his brother's voice held.

It wasn't quite the same, of course, still edged with a line of something delicate, like he could break at any moment, but it was stronger, too, some of that steely resolve creeping back into his tone. It was this simple thing that Canada used to justify his extended stay away, pitifully happy to forgive France in exchange for comfort. Still, Canada hadn't prepared to face all of them, but one by one he did. 

The first encroachment on his peaceful bubble was Russia. 

He hadn't meant to be spying. He'd been awake, and hearing France's gentle murmur, had gone to find him, needing nothing, but wanting to be seen. But then he had heard Russia's low voice and a series of emotions went through him. Firstly fear, like someone had stuck white-hot nails through his nerve endings, then compensated by pouring liquid nitrogen on it. What was Russia doing here, so late, meeting so secretly? What if France had gathered them to do the same to him? 

A voice in his head scolded him."You know the answer already." And he did know. There were only two reasons that Russia could be here. The first was to find America, to use Canada to track him down. Then Canada was angry, furious, wanting to stamp and scream. He had trusted Russia, liked him as they played against eachother, and Russia had given him his first nickname, aside from America's name for him. "Matvey" Russia had called him, challenging, bright, hockey stick held firmly, unwavering.

But now he was coming to treat Canada like a tool, so he could find and break America? Canada's protective side flared up. He would bite out his own tongue before he would say anything, he would not help Russia find him. But his feelings changed to shock as he heard Russia's gentle murmured response, catching his own name on the thick Russian accent. "Is Matvey okay?"

Somewhere, dimly, the voice in Canada's head told him that Russia had come for the second reason, to see Canada. He knew he should be afraid. He could beat Russia if it was just him, but it would exhausting, tiring, and if France joined forces he would inevitably lose. If they chose to do anything to him, he would be helpless. But what Canada felt wasn't fear, but something tired. His 9 months of rest seemed like nothing suddenly, and he was exhausted. 

"I do not need to see him, only know he is ok." Russia continued, and Canada's exhaustion turned to wonder. If Russia wasn't here to hurt him, had he truly come just to check up on him? Russia had noticed Canada, remembered him. True, Russia had also participated on interrogating Canada before, but Russia's hands had been gentler than usual, awkwardly holding back his full weight, and it has been Germany, cool and precise, who caused the most harm. 

But Russia was moving to leave, apparently satisfied at France's response, and Cansda moved against his will, lenaing out the window. "Ivan!" He called and Russia spun around, a look of incredulous disbelief and awe on his face. Internally, Canada felt the same, not really understand what had possessed him to call out. But Canada knew what he had to communicate. 

"If you speak to America, if you're honest, if it's you, he'll listen." Canada called down to Russia, without hesitation. As certain as he was that England had just set foot over his border, Canada knew America. Russia was staring wide-eyed. Whether America would forgive Russia, Canada couldn't say, but he knew that if Russia went alone and opened his heart, at the very least, his brother would listen.

For a moment Russia froze, as though processing th situation, then he smiled, a true smile, not his usual faked beam. "Spasibo, thank you." And even though his arms were shaking and he collapsed as France reached out an arm to steady him, Canada felt satisfied. Finally, something was changing.


	26. Year 9-Chapter 2

America couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this, carefree and happy, as he and Australia exited the bowling alley. Austrialia had lost, badly, but he didn't seem to care much, only promising that next time he would be better. Of course America had noticed the promised "next time" hidden in Australia's tone, but surprisingly, he found himself looking forwards to it. 

But his laughter died in his throat when he heard the thick accented Russian voice call out to him. 

"America." 

He froze, feeling his fingers and toes go numb, and suddenly, he found himself in a different place, a long time ago, and he was scared, really scared. He reached for Australia's hand, but even though Australia had been just behind him when he left the building, he had vanished, and was nowhere to be seen. America balanced on his toes, ready to bolt, but Russia stayed where he was, several feet away, and made no move to come closer.

America tried to breathe, trying to remember everything Canada had taught him, but every bone in his body screamed at him to run. Russia was wearing only his white scarf and a thin sweater, his usual jacket and pipe gone, his fitted shirt showing clearly the shape of his body, and the lack of hidden weapons, and that scared America more. What was Russia planning? Was he alone? America needed to run, he needed to get away. 

He backed up a few feet, ready to bolt if needed, panicked, but Russia didn't follow him, instead actually backing up. America hesitated. "I want to talk, " Russia offered, firmly. "I don't want to hear it." America snapped in response, the words escaping on their own. He didn't want to hear this, to have them beg and plead for him to understand that it was for his good, that his pain meant nothing because they did it for him. Russia opened his mouth the speak and America cut him off. 

"I _don't_ want to hear it!" He warned again, dangerously. "Not your apologies, not your excuses!" He used the words to create a wall between him and Russia, and emotional barrier that Russia could not pass. Russia shrugged, ignoring the barrier. "I brought none of those." His words were simple, but heavy. 

America stiffened, feeling unnaturally cold despite the warm night. If Russia wasn't here to beg forgiveness and plead his case, "Then what do you want?" America's tone lowered, deeper, more guarded. Russia considered it. "I'm not sure." He admitted. America felt incredulous, but more than than, a growing irritation. Russia had hunted him down, disturbed his peace, and brought up traumatic memories, and he had to the nerve to say he was "Not sure" what he wanted from America? 

" _What?_ " America demanded, bewildered and insulted. Russia frowned. "When I was little, everyday hurt. I went though the same you went through before ato become large and grow. To me I cannot understand your feeling. Yes it hurts. But everything hurts." Russia explained haltingly. The worst part was that America could tell by his eyes and face that he was being honest. Russia honestly didn't understand how he hurt America. 

"I can't apologize because I don't understand how Russia hurt you." Russia continued, his words electrifying America, making his hairs stand on end. "I can't make escuses because there are none. I don't know if I was wrong or not. I can't fix what was broken, I am only good at breaking things. But still.." Russia's voice was softer than America had ever heard it before, and maybe because of that,America felt that he wanted to hear what Russia would say next. 

Russia reached a hand out slowly, open, palm up, as though he was about to pull his hand away from a high-five saying "too slow!" and America realized Russia was awkwardly offering to shake his hand. "I want you, America. Not to be one with Russia, but to stand against me. To fight me on equal grounds, to shove me out of the way whe you enter a room, and to steal my friends like Lithuania from me."

Russia continued, awkwardly at first, but roughly forcing onwards like he always did. He met America's eyes evenly with his own gaze, and for a moment, Russia's honest face, and hopefully purple eyes overlapped with his brother's face as Russia said his next words. "Because I want to hear Alfred F Jones call me Ivan again."


	27. Year 9-Chapter 3

But the image faded as quickly as it came, and America wouldn't be so quick to forgive, cautious, wounded, betrayed. "How can I trust you won't do it again?" He asked hoarsely, faintly conscious of the slight tremor in his legs. Russia's response was in tune with his character. "I don't think it was wrong." He challenged, and America felt his heart turning to stone, his face à mask of anger. 

But Russia wasn't done yet. "But I know what it did to you. I will respect Alfred's wishes, because you are important to Russia." It took America a few seconds to comprehend what Russia was saying. That even though Russia would not apologize or admit he was wrong, he had realized his actions hurt America, and made the decision to not do it again. 

It was such a Russian way to think that America almost laughed. Or he would have if he wasn't so terrified. America hesitated, and if Australia was there he might have used him as a barrier, hid behind him or asked him to decided for him. America wished Canada would appear and answer for him, tell him what was the right choice, but the little voice inside whispered to him that it wasn't Canada's choice to make. 

"What If I say no, to go away and never speak to me again?" He tested. Russia's lip curled down, and if America hadn't known better, he would have thought Russia was about to cry. But Russia wasn't the type to give up. 

"I won't give up." Russia promised grimly, his hand lowering. "Because I like you Alfred. I want to be friends with you again. I want to hear you call my name again. " Russia wasn't good at being sensitive, or speaking carefully, and he didn't know how to convince someone properly instead of threatening. But Canada had said to be honest, and he had, and it was taking its effect. Russia took another step back. 

"I will give you space." He turned to go, and America found himself not wanting the other country to leave. America darted forwards, blocking Russia's path, breathing heavily, almost gasping. America was terrified. Half of his body was screaming at him to get away, to get far away, but the other half was begging him to wait, to listen, not to let this chance slip. 

America realized with a start that he didn't want to be alone anymore. He wanted to continue doing things, laughing and bowling with Australia, playing hockey with Canada, talking with Russia. He didn't want to lose the good things just to avoid the bad. So America licked his dry lips and hesitantly gave Russia his response. 

"I don't think I can call your name just yet." He said uneasily, sickly. "I can't take your hand. But, if you won't give up, and keep coming back, then maybe, someday, I..." He trailed off, because Russia was definitely crying, tears glittering in his purple eyes, so similar yet completely different than Canada's.

"I'm happy." Russia said softly "Because America gave me a chance." He used his scarf to wipe his tears away, but his smile was clear and genuine. America watched him go uneasily.He wasn't josure if he had made the right choice, or if it was a mistake. The panic he kept forcing down began to rise, and America was shaking, scared and alone.

Then he heard the cheerful Aussie accent from behind him. "Well then, mate!" Australia suggested from behind America, slinging an arm over his shoulder as though he'd been there the whole time. "Lets go back shall we?" America whirled to glare at him. "Where were you?" He demanded, angrily. Australia blinked innocently. "I accidently wore my bowling shoes out." He explained, unaffected by America's angry tone. "I went back to get my thongs. Did something happen? "

America scowled. "Yeah. Russia." Australia didn't look surprised, and only examined America. "You look ok." He decided. "Let's get ice cream in the way back" Australia continued, unbothered, and America stared at him, agast. "Did you know he was coming?" Australia stopped digging in his wallet for a second. "How could I have?" He pulled out a bill and grinned. "Lets go mate!" America didn't press him further, but as he trailed after Australia, he couldn't help but notice that he hadn't said "No."


	28. Year 10-Chapter 1

"See!" England seethed, slamming his hands on the table, and turning to Japan, trailing behind him quietly. "I _told_ you this damn frog was hiding them from us!" He glared at France, a familiar scene, one that the America of the old days wouldn't have even reacted to. Canada flinched, ducking as though to hide behind France. America Shriveled. His skin seemed to be shrinking in an attempt to distance himself from England. 

"Angleterre!" France warned, and there was something in his eyes that reminded America of himself before that happened. America hadn't really wanted to see France at all, but it was Canada and Australia's cajoling that had finally convinced America. America still felt flutter and uncomfortable around France, the same way someone might react around a bee, cautiously. Even now, France was on the inside of the bench, blocked in by Canada, and America sat across from his brother, on the edge of the seat, ready to bolt if needed.

America drew back, plastering himself against the wall end of the booth, breaths shallow, and tried to remind himself to breathe. He cast a wide-eyed desperate glance at his brother, and for the first time saw how Canada cringed behind France. Somewhere inside him, something stirred, something America realized for the first time that Canada was scared too. In fact, if America hadn't been watching his brother, Canada would have seemed to disappear into thin air, as though he wasn't even there.

America wanted to stand up and run, far far away. But no, he didn't want to go near England, blocking his way. He didn't want to abandon Canada. America felt like England's presence was crushing the thing inside him he'd been building up slowly all these years. Why had he gone out again? Why had he laughed with Australia, what had he been speaking about so casually with Canada only moments before? America reached for the memories desperately, and he realized that he didn't want to go back to being afraid.

America didn't want to feel sick anymore, to flinch as sudden touches or feel always on edge, always ready to run from the memories waiting just out of sight, just around to corners, ready to grab him and pull him back into the same dark place that Canada had just pulled him out of. But even so, America couldn't forced himself to move. It was all he could do to not jump up and run, or slide under the table. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Canada shift, still timid, but ready to draw the attention, to be America's sheild just like in the past. 

America didn't want that either. The only reason he had listened to Canada, agreed to meet France, was because of the change he saw in Canada. The way the worry lines had almost disappeared, the gentler way Canada held himself, the shine to his eyes as he talked. America felt as though, for the first time since that time, he'd finally got his brother back, and he didn't want to lose him. But before Canada could speak, before the carriage turned back into a pumpkin and the spell broke, France spoke, a line of steel in his tone that America had never heard before. 

"I will not let you hurt them anymore." America blanched at France's tone, and the only thing that kept him from panicking was the fact France's tone was not aimed at him, but at England, protectively. England gritted his teeth, and decided to ignore France, addressing America directly. "America, I won't let you run anymore." There was a hissing sound, a cross between a a cat spitting and gas escaping a pipeline, and America realized dimly it was him. 

It was the angry sound he himself made that gave America confidence. He wasn't scared anymore, he wasn't running. He was angry. The feeling bubbled up from inside and he spat it out like acid. "Fuck off." The vicious words gave America momentum, and he peeled himself off the back of the booth, sitting up a little taller, feeling like he could take on even one of Canada's moose at this time. 

America met England's eyes directly, and this time, he didn't waver.


	29. Year 10-Chapter 2

England didn't flinch at America's harsh words, all too used to them from another time. Part of Canada wanted to stand between his brother and his previous family, but the greater part wanted to hide, to disappear completely. But there was another, small part of Canada that was watching America with amazement, seeing the shoulders thrown back for the first time Canada could remember since that time, hearing the bite to America's words that Canada hadn't heard since World War II. Part of Canada wanted to push America, to see his mental strength from long before wake up.

So Canada didn't move, even though he knew he should, that he needed to protect his brother. Neither did America. England wasn't budging either, and the staredown might have gone on a lot longer, if it wasn't for the looming mass appearing behind England, and dark and dangerous aura seeking to lower the temperature of the room. "What are you doing England?"

Russia's words were phrased as a question but spoken as a warning. The heavy implications behind the glowering form did the trick, and England retreated a few steps. Not a lot, but enough to create an opening. Canada knew that America saw it too, as well as he knew his brother would take it. And yet... He glanced at America, quizzically, and noticed that America, though still stiff, was not moving. America was taking a stand. 

On the other hand, it was now England who was faltering. "... Russia?" England stumbled over the name, his face a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. "What are you doing here?" Russia shoved past England, reaching for a fry off the plate sitting on the table, and England's eyes widened as he counted the four spots, slowly putting two and two together. Russia took his time answering.

"I am speaking with America, France, and Canada." Russia finally answered, and there was a small noise from behind England, as Japan drew their attention for the first time. America had been avoiding looking there, not wanting to see his best friend like that. Not wanting to remember the last time he had seen him. Japan murmured something that only England could hear, and the UK turned to him. "Pardon?" America's temporary confidence was fading now, and he wanted nothing more than the get out of there and never go back. 

Russia seemed to read America's mind, and offered a hand. "Lets go back." He decided, and for a moment America hesitated. Russia's hand was only inches away, waiting, but America wasn't sure he wanted to risk it, to take the hand that had betrayed him before. But already Canada was slipping out of his seat, pulling France with him, and America caught a glimpse of his brother's face. Canada looked confidently straight ahead, no longer trying to hide or disappear. 

So in less than a moment, America came to his decision, and his hands closed around Russia's calloused hand, and Russia pulled America to his feet. For a moment, Russia's hand lingered, and America could read the expression of wonder on his face, then the hand let go, and it was the four of them, Russia, America, France and Canada, against England and Japan.

Somewhere to his right, America felt Canada's cool hand slip into his, and he squeezed it. England faltered, backing up a few steps. "But why?" He choked, emotionally, and America felt nothing, just cool and impassive. "Why did America go to you and not me?" Japan was the one to answer England's question, his eyes unreadable. "Because France went to them peacefully and we came forcefully." His tone held a line of weariness as Japan realized that once again, they had gone about things wrong.

America refused to look at Japan, and instead made eye contact with Canada. "We should go. Australia and New Zealand are probably waiting." He said the words on purpose, rather spitefully. America _wanted_ England and Japan to overhear. He wanted them to realize that just because he didn't have them didn't mean he was alone. America wanted them to know he didn't need them.


End file.
